


Noctilucent

by YouTalkLikeADentist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, John Wick (2014)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-09-15 12:18:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9234695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouTalkLikeADentist/pseuds/YouTalkLikeADentist
Summary: Is he cursed? It seems like no matter what Wick does, he can’t seem to shake off the shadow his past casts over his life. Always a fight, always corpses littered around him. And now he has his own little shadow, Harry, a boy with a cursed luck of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The cold is something Harry is used to. In his cupboard, there are no fluffy woollen blankets like in Dudley’s room, no space heaters like he sees on the telly, nothing. Harry deals with the cold in his own ways, swaddling himself in the mountains of fabric that make up Dudley’s old clothes. Yes, the cold is something he is used to.

 

Or so he thinks, at least. It isn’t until the golden star sticker he earned in Primary school, the one Dudley _didn’t_ get, earns him the punishment of sleeping outside in the garden that he thinks otherwise.

 

Because there is cold and then there is _freezing_.

 

Harry tries to warm up whatever way he can. Breathes on his hands, shoves them into the spaces between his arms and his torso. Nothing seems to work and he resigns himself to the cold, sleeping so close to the hedge he is practically under it, but it keeps the sharp stinging wind at bay and buries himself under the few leaves he had raked up as part of his chores.

 

Curled up, he closes his eyes and shivers imagining that there was more. He pretends and pretends and pretends...

 

‘Suppose that my clothes were soft and woolly and warm, suppose that I had a whole roast all to myself last night and not just a scrap of toast’ he thinks to himself, ‘Suppose that the glow that’s keeping me awake was from a fireplace and not just a lamppost.’

 

For a moment, he can almost believe it. He feels a rush of warmth through him, a tingling thing that goes through him from his toes to his fingers, and he almost groans aloud at the feeling. For a moment he is almost certain that he did, but he realises that the noise had not come from him but it had come from somewhere, somewhere outside but close by.

 

Harry startles and is shaken forcibly out of his almost-sleep as that realisation rings through him. The warmth is gone, and he sits up, looking around cautiously for the source of that sound.

 

Trembling hands part the leaves of the hedge just enough that he could see outside on the road and he shakes at the sight in front of him. Behind the flickering light of the lamppost, he sees a shadowy figure dragging itself along the pavement, a red light near where the mouth would have been. He knows in his mind that it’s just a man, a man who’s smoking and probably drunk from the way he’s stumbling, but his heart races as the thought of demon rushes through him. The burning red brightens, and he is taken aback, a long forgotten dream of green light and a woman screaming, of red eyes staring at him with hate, suddenly remembered.

 

The figure comes closer, and when it steps into the light Harry sighs in relief but does not let his vigilant stare go. Mr Wick may not be a stranger, not exactly, but that didn’t make him harmless. In fact, judging by the red stains on his shirt, quite the opposite.

 

Harry’s finger and toes crossed as he made the silent wish that he wouldn’t be noticed, that Mr Wick would go away now, surely he had to go to the hospital?

 

And just as the silent plea was completed, the brown eyes turned swiftly to where Harry was hidden behind the hedge and step by step, he drew closer.

 

“What are you doing out here? It’s cold and dangerous out here... Harry wasn’t it?”

 

And Harry looks up at him with his eyes wide open and gasps.

 

No one had ever bothered remembering his name before.

 

* * *

 

Was he stupid to expect anything else? Stupid to expect that he’d left his old life behind in New York, that maybe his past wouldn’t follow him here?

 

John Wick, _Baba Yaga_ , had thought he’d burnt down all the remnants, all the connections tying him to his old job, anything that might reach out to pull him back when he killed Viggo Tarasov.

 

_You got out once. You dip so much as a pinky back into this pond, you may well find something reaches out, and drags you back into its depths._

 

Maybe Winston was right, one chance was all they got and Wick had used his up. Barely two months since he’d moved to this suburb with its dull plain houses and its nosy neighbours and green yards, and already the depths had reached out.

 

He knew Viggo had family here on the continent, but he thought they’d have learnt not to make his mistakes. Instead, they’d sent out their teams out to kill him and forced his hand. Wick was tired, he didn’t want to do this but he had no choice. He didn’t have much, if anything at all, left to fight for, but that didn’t mean he would just roll over for someone. The fight was in his bones, in his blood, in his _soul_ , and he would do so to the very end.

 

If only the idiots would send somebody actually capable of taking him out.

 

So, here he was, outside his new house now filled to the brim with bodies that he didn’t have any way of getting rid of anymore. Cleaning up after him was something he hadn’t done in a long time. Charlie and his specialised waste disposal service had spoilt him, he supposed, and it wasn’t a luxury he had here in England.

 

Wick didn’t quite have the gentle touch that they did at the cleaning service. He simply loaded it up with explosives and set it to explode the next afternoon. He would have done it right then but there were families sleeping in the house next doors and he wouldn’t do that to them. Penance he supposed, he hadn’t quite paid his debt back to the world.

 

Tomorrow was good, in the afternoon the ladies in Number Six and Four, Magnolia Crescent, a Lisa Smith and Arabella Figg respectively would be out for sure then. They’d been kind enough to him to merit the consideration, even though Smith had been nosy, asking him a million questions he hadn’t felt up to answering and Figg had ignored all his pleas to keep her cats away from him because of his allergies.

 

Wick sighed as he made his way down the pavement, following any twist or turn of the road he felt like. For a moment he’d almost believed he’d get his peaceful ever after here, here where he’d worried about allergies and neighbours instead of snipers and mobs.

 

But he supposed it just wasn’t to be. He took another turn and ended up on Privet Drive. One arm, he tucked close to his ribs, the other he used to place the cigarette in his mouth and light up the end. Terrible habit, he knew, but it was all he had now. Another time and he would have held Daisy II, his sweet little pitbull, close and let her lick his face and calm him down but even she was gone, lost to the heart problems she’d inherited.

 

He stumbled down the road and paused suddenly. Wick felt eyes upon him and stilled, tense. The back of his neck pricked and he let his instincts take over, his eyes sweeping around, finally landing upon the hedge in the garden nearby. A pair of green eyes looked back at him and Wick wracked his brain to remember.

 

The numbers on the side of the house read 4 and he remembered then, the Dursleys.

 

Well, the Dursleys and their nephew, the one he was staring at. He seemed harmless but Wick remembered all the tales he’d heard about the boy and remained cautious. He knew first hand that looking harmless was a good disguise, not that Wick had anything to fear from a boy who had only just grown out of the toddler phase.

 

But the eyes staring back at him were scared and even Wick knew that six year old juvenile delinquents did not belong outside houses, sleeping in hedges on cold November nights. Wick considered it and then bracing himself he bends at the knees to get at eye level to the boy.

 

“What are you doing out here?” He tries to keep the gruffness that comes with being choked, out of his voice. “It’s cold and dangerous out here... Harry wasn’t it?”

 

The boy stands up, tentative and Wick frowns at the look on his face, shock and awe. His frown deepens as he takes a closer look, at the goose bumps all over the boy, the overlarge and raggedy thin clothes he’s wearing, the lack of shoes and the alarming thinness of the pale and blueing wrists poking out from the shirt.

 

He expects a scream or something. Maybe the boy would run away, he doesn’t know much about children. Instead Harry steps forward, his eyes narrowed to where Wick’s arm is attempting to keep his ribs stable.

 

“You’re hurt.” He says instead.

 

“So it seems.” Wick smiles even though the movement hurts him. He hopes it doesn’t come out like the smile he gives his victims before gunning them down, but what is is, and what Wick is is always going to be a gun for hire. A retired one perhaps, but still.

 

“You should put something cold on it.” Harry says in a soft voice and Wick knows that this is something he has dealt with before.

 

John cannot claim to know what it is like for this boy standing in front of him. By the time he was old enough, deep enough in the underworld to have cracked and bruised ribs on a regular basis, he also had Winston there to tell him to stop being an idiot and take better care of himself.

 

Did Harry have someone like that? He didn’t think so, or he wouldn’t be out here all alone.

 

“What are you doing out here, kid?”

 

Harry blinks a few times, his mouth twisting as his thoughts of tentative consideration play out over his face. The eyes dart to the red stain on Wick’s shirt and only then does he answer. “I was punished.”

 

“What for?” Wick wonders what possible crime could have earned him such a punishment.

 

“I did well in a spelling test today.” Harry answers and Wick frowns.

 

“That doesn’t sound like something you get punished for.”

 

“ _I_ did well, but...Dudley didn’t.”

 

Wick doesn’t know anything about children, but even he knows that a place that punishes a child for doing well by making him sleep outside in the cold isn’t good. John sighs and looks around him. The sky has that bloody red tinge to it that means that dawn is coming, and he needs to leave.

 

“I’m getting out of this place,” Harry pouts, as if sad to see Wick go and it makes him wonder, “You wanna come with?”

 

The almost leap that Harry makes trying to get out of the Dursleys’ house and onto the pavement where Wick stood is all the answer he needs.

 

He only hopes his cursed luck doesn’t extend to the kid as well.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

To New York again? It wouldn't be difficult, even with Harry. John knows all the ways to the city, knows all the nooks and crannies, all the secret waterways and more. He knows how to forge document, knows what to say to the right people, at the right time.

 

It is tedious though. He is better with a gun in hand, a ghost that creeps in for the kill and leaves just as fast. It is the staying part that he struggles with.

 

And Harry would need a place to stay, wouldn't he?

 

It isn't until he's driving on the M3 that the thought hits him and he looks into the mirror to see the boy in the backseat, sleeping. As if sensing eyes on him, Harry wakes up and looks around wildly.

 

"You okay?" Wick asks and Harry nods before croaking out a soft 'yes'. "Listen, I can turn the car around anytime you want, take you back home a-"

 

"It's not home," Harry says, and it is the most alive he has been in all these hours. For a second John feels as if the air in the car has gotten denser, pressing in down on him. In a moment John is taken back to when he was nineteen, his first kill and the panic attack that had followed. "The Dursleys...their house was never home."

 

"Your choice, Harry" And the pressure lifts, it feels easier to breathe. For a second Wick flashes back to the one time he talked to Petunia Dursley, how she'd sniffed and said 'He makes things happen, that blasted boy,' and stows the moment away as something to remember. "But you should know, there are a lot of people after me."

 

"The ones who hurt you?" He asks, his eyes sharpening in a way they just shouldn't.

 

"The ones who hurt me," John confirms. Harry thinks it over, and that's strange isn't it? A six year old thinking over his options of whether he wants to go off into the world with a man with a clearly dangerous past or stay with his aunt and uncle. And it's telling that it's not a difficult decision for him.

 

Finally, he shrugs, "Still better than the Dursleys," He claims, and sinks back into the seat ready to sleep some more.

 

And against all odds, John does something he hasn't for ages.

 

He smiles.

 

* * *

 

In another part of the world, not too far away, in an office filled with books, portraits and an empty bird stand, there was a desk covered in odd silver instruments, some spinning, some puffing smoke.

 

One of them paused suddenly. It was early in the morning yet, so early that it was still night. The office's usual occupants were away for a meeting in France, and would not be back for ages. But a man in a portrait stood vigil over it, eyeing the instrument carefully. Then, a single silver instrument paused, turning a murky colour as if getting tarnished with a lifetime's worth of exposure to the elements, in a single second. It let out a large cloud of smoke and then began turning the other way, faster than it had before, quicker and quicker with every single second before imploding. All that was left of it was a crumpled and tarnished piece of silver, and the man in the one portrait still awake gasped before fleeing to a single chocolate frog card in France to warn the current headmaster of Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry of what had happened.

 

A pity he had drained a vial of Dreamless sleep potion moments ago.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I would have updated earlier but then I pushed it back because I wanted to watch John Wick 2 and then I missed it while it was in the theaters and now I'm sad.


	3. Chapter 3

 

" _There are more things in heaven and earth, than can be dreamt of."_ Winston had once told him. It sounded familiar then, but he didn't know where from.

 

Helen had told him it was from some play by Shakespeare, Wick always forgot the name. He remembered her saying they used it as the basis of the Lion King, though. It had struck him as odd, and so he remembered that.

 

More things in heaven and earth. Did the odd things that happened around Harry count as a part of heaven or earth then?

 

He could ask the young child about it, _should,_ in fact. But what answer would he get? The one that was true or the one that his guardians had told him was true? But there was no time for this philosophy. There was work to be done.

 

John pulled into a service station. He didn't need to rest, nor fill the tank. But he needed to think and he needed to sit down on a chair and ask Harry what he needed. What he wanted.

 

' _No point in asking what the boy wants,'_ said a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Viggo. Not the snivelling Viggo who had spoken on the phone That Night, nor the bloodthirsty one he had killed. The Viggo of older times, the one who had talked to him in English because he thought his Russian made him sound too soft. The one who had been sad to see him leave their world for a woman. The one who was once as close to a friend as they got in their world, ' _The only thing that matters is what you can actually give the boy.'_

 

What he could give the boy? Not much. But still more than anyone had offered.

 

* * *

 

The car's roar dulls down into a purr as Wick pulls them into a service station. It's mid-afternoon and Wick had driven around in circles to shake off any tails that might have followed them. Hiding is not something he's fond of, or particularly good at. But he manages all the same. It's full and crowded somehow, some event or festival somewhere he supposes.

 

It works to their advantage, and that is all that really matters to him.

 

John stands outside a store with colourful children's clothes in the window display. Next to him, Harry shifts. The overlarge clothes he wears stand out, and before anyone could ask questions John guides them into the place.

 

Harry isn't picky, which works well. Then again, Harry isn't picky because this is the very first thing he is to wear that is his own. The staff in the shop shoot him some odd looks and the cashier strikes up a conversation, very obviously to find out more, but Wick doesn't quite understand. He's been in this place for too short a while to make out the deeper accents, and Harry speaks up in his defence.

 

"Sorry, he's new here and I don't think he understands."

 

"First big weekend out with the lad?" She says, slowly this time drawing out her syllables so it's easy for him to understand.

 

And John does some quick thinking.

 

"Nyet," he says and does his best imitation of Viggo, that slight enunciation belying the fact that English was not a first language. "There were some problems with his...fosterers? The people that my...partner left him with."

 

She doesn't ask him anything more, Harry's wide eyed Dickensian orphan look saying enough. With a grim knowing smile, she tallies up their bill and they leave the place.

 

Harry doesn't quite bounce like another child might have in his place, but his excitement is obvious. His slight squint as he tries to read the name on the bag in Wick's hands decides the next thing he needs.

 

But glasses usually take a while to be done up to prescription and they can't stay in one place for so long.

 

'In New York,' Wick decides, and is once again surprised by the direction of his thoughts.

 

After all, should he return to New York? Or stay on the Continent? Perhaps go somewhere else?

 

What to do?

 

Time is what he needs, time to think, time to decide. In the room in the little overnight hotel they're staying in for the night, he sits Harry down in front of him.

 

"Where do you want to go?"

 

Harry's eyes go impossibly wide at that.

 

"We could go to New York. I used to live there, there are people I know that could help. But there are also people who might hurt us."

 

"Then what were they doing here?"

 

And Wick almost laughs, wondering how to explain that his demons had followed him here. There was no true safe place for him, and thus by extension, for Harry.

 

"They followed me here."

 

And as if that was what Harry was waiting to hear, the words began tumbling out of the boy.

 

"Sometimes I think I might be followed too." In the chair he's seated in, Harry shakes. His new clothes are still in the bags and his fingers twist and turn in the thread hanging off the worn old clothes. "When we go out, people, strangely dressed, come up to me. They know my name and they say thank you and shake my hand."

 

His eyes dart up for the briefest of moments before turning back down.

 

"Strange things happen around me. Sometimes when I want things to happen they...do."

 

"What kind of things?" Wick asks, and hopes he doesn't sound threatening. He just wants to know, really.

 

"One time when Aunt Petunia cut my hair it grew back overnight. She tried to give me an old sweater of Dudley's and it started shrinking and shrinking right in her hands. I turned a teacher's wig blue once, when I was angry."

 

Whatever John was expecting, that wasn't it. It sounded a lot like-, "Magic?"

 

* * *

 

It was nearing night when Albus Dumbledore woke up from his deep, deep slumber. The ICW meetings the night before had gone on very long indeed, negotiations with Vampire Covens taking up all the time.

 

He was getting old, Dumbledore thought. Another time, and he would have taken the opportunity to gallivanting about France, drop in for some tea at the Flamel's house, perhaps have a lively debate with Perenelle about dragon heartstrings, and about alchemy with Nicolas.

 

Then again, those times would have been a good fifteen years prior. Before Tom's war had become so violent. Even now, the more pressing concerns were about rebuilding alliances that had fallen apart during the war, only five years had passed since the end of it after all.

 

And his thoughts so often did, they wandered to that little boy who had ended it. So lost was he, that it took several loud attempts for Armando's portrait form to get his attention.

 

"Albus!" His former colleague and senior exclaimed, his eye all that was visible in the tiny window of the chocolate frog, "You must get to Hogwarts quickly, the instruments!"

 

Panic seized him.

 

It was a necessary evil that tied young Harry to the Dursleys home, the blood wards were the only place he would be safe from the evils of their world that still sought him out.

 

But the Dursleys, he knew, weren't the kindest of guardians. There was danger there, danger that he wilfully ignored knowing from experience that a muggleborn child's accidental magic would work to save them if circumstances grew too bad. Some children vanished into thin air, some injured their tormentors in revenge, why, Dumbledore had even come across a child whose accidental magic had obliviated his harmful guardians that he had ever existed!

 

Magic protected it's own.

 

(The fact it shouldn't _have_ to remained unrealised and unthought.)

 

Making his farewells, citing urgent school business, Albus left France and travelled back to Hogwarts. He took in his ruined instruments with dismay, the blood wards on Privet Drive had fallen completely and would never be repaired. In the chaos of the celebrations at the end of the war it had been easy for Albus to set up the wards without earning the ire of the Ministry for magic in a Muggle area, but that was no longer the case. His workings would be noticed and he would need to give answers that went beyond the usual, "The sacrificial protective magic of the rebounded Killing Curse anchored itself to this home where Harry's blood relatives live"

 

How on Earth had Arabella missed this?!

 

Dumbledore tried to get to Arabella's house, standing in the fireplace, throwing floo powder onto the ground and yelling 'Figg tree Magnolia Crescent' over and over again to no end. It seemed the floo had broken down over there.

 

Tired, angry and more than a little worried, Dumbledore transfigured his robes into a maroon suit and Apparated to a point nearby and walked his way to Magnolia Crescent.

 

And he was soon lost in the crowd around it. The place where three houses had once stood, now there was only rubble and fire. A number of Arabella's half kneazle hybrids found him there, standing in shock, and wound their furry little bodies around him. A multitude of muggles surrounded the area, in full regalia, firefighters, he thought they were called. Or was it flamefighters? He didn't quite know.

 

He turned to the closest person and prepared his most grandfatherly smile and twinkle, "Excuse me, do you know what happened to Arabella Figg? She lived in one of those houses."

 

" _You!"_ Came an accusing voice and he found the person next to him inching away as he was confronted by Petunia Dursley nee Evans. "She was one of yours, I should have known. Ghastly bint."

 

And Dumbledore drew himself to his full height. "Do you know Petunia, the only reason I rushed here was because my monitors told me Harry wasn't at Privet Drive anymore, care to explain that?"

 

She blanched, but didn't look away. "Who cares where that brat is?" She sneered and Dumbledore's heart sank. "You think we care about where that boy ran off to when real people, _good_ people, not freaks like _you_ , were hurt? I don't care where or how the boy is, worthless waste of space."

 

"I thought better of you, Petunia," Albus tried to put every bit of disappointment he felt into his voice. It had induced many a schoolchild to burst into tears, and confess to their crimes and apologise profusely. It made Petunia laugh.

 

"Who cares what you freaks think. I hope that boy is rotting under that rubble." She said, and walked off. Albus knew then, that even if he found the boy there was no way for him to return to the Dursleys household.

 

"Albus!" Came a terrified but far more friendly greeting. Arabella had found him.

 

"What happened?"

 

"We don't know everything yet," she said, wringing her hands nervously. "It looks like an explosion in the house next door that caught my house with it! Luckily, the cats are doing fine, but Albus, they found _bodies_ in the wreckage! Oh, I do hope Mr Wick is alright! Such a nice young man and-"

 

"Arabella, where's Harry?!"

 

She started, "Harry? Well, I expect he's home. They cancelled school for the day, a few children saw the explosion and were traumatised."

 

All this ridiculousness was driving Albus quite mad. No straight answers from anyone at all, an explosion with too many people hovering for Albus to do some Compelled questioning, how vexing!

 

And Petunia, that vile child. Albus shook off Arabella's hand and her protests and stalked off in search of the horrid woman that Lily had called sister, and when he found her in her front yard, he ripped through her mind with a viciousness that would have made Severus proud and snarled at what he found there.

 

They left him out in the cold in the night. Nearly a day had passed, and Harry Potter had been lost most thoroughly.

 

All patience lost, Albus stuck his wand arm out and climbed into the Knight bus, Arabella tottering after. He got off at Diagon Alley and while Arabella settled into the Leaky Cauldron he went to the owlery and sent out missives all around Britain.

 

The Order of the Phoenix would need to be reassembled, and the hunt for Harry Potter begun.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Constant vigilance, that was what Alastor always said. Dumbledore hadn't fought in far too long, he had forgotten all the lessons he'd learnt in war, had grown complacent in times of peace.

 

And now, here he was making up for his mistakes. It had been difficult and a bit painful but he'd scavenged through all the instruments that had broken in his office, found the little bit of Harry's blood he still had, and taken apart his Deluminator to create a tracking device. Harry was moving at a furious pace, Dumbledore couldn't tell if it was by magical means or muggle but he was moving, and the tracker couldn't latch on to a single location. But for all that Dumbledore had forgotten about constant vigilance, he hadn't forgotten patience. And that was exactly what was needed now. Because sooner or later Harry and whoever had taken him would stop and that was when Dumbledore would strike.

 

But this was not something he could do alone, or indeed, do himself. The maps he was poring over told him that Harry was moving over Muggle ways, and Dumbledore may have been touted as a Muggle lover but he was sorely ignorant about the ways of it. Discretion was needed, and that was something he never had.

 

Kingsley and Moody were the best choices he had. Kingsley's assignments often had him interacting with Muggle police, and Moody would keep the man from underestimating the Muggles. Another time, and he would have an entire squad ready in minutes. But alas, the Weasley's brood was too young, William the only one of age and Arthur's obsession with the Muggle world would distract him far too easily. Remus might have been someone he considered in another time, but he feared that the young werewolf would never trust him, never forgive him if he found out that Dumbledore had lost James and Lily's son, and Severus' absence from Hogwarts would be noticed, especially since the Aurors still kept an eye on his whereabouts.

 

The same reasons kept him from involving Minerva in this, for all that no one in the entirety of England was more qualified for this hunt than her. Her knowledge of the Muggle world was impeccable, kept up to date with her multitude of visits to Muggleborns, and Dumbledore knew well that she was someone to fear in a fight.

 

But if she found out about Harry he was afraid the only person she'd engage in a fight would be him.

 

No, Alastor and Kingsley it was. A covert operation the likes of which they had never used before, the war with Voldemort always fought out in the open. In silence, he passed the Deluminator over to Alastor and in silence they left.

 

And again, Dumbledore waited.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't quite sleep that Wick was woken from. He knew well enough how to exist between the states of slumber and waking so that he wouldn't lose his mind to hyper awareness, nor be so unaware as to be caught off guard. His half closed eyes opened fully and took in the scene from outside the window. There was nothing there, not exactly. But the shadows were off, deeper than they should have been in places, and they moved too much in some places, too little in others.

 

'Expect the impossible', Winston had said when he'd last gone to settle his bills and debts. 'Where you're going...let's just say things are a bit more obvious than in other places.'

 

And it had been strange to hear. Winston was many things, vague and cryptic weren't them.

 

Now, as he prepared for a fight with seemingly invisible folk, thought perhaps Winston was being as clear as he could without seeming mad.

 

John woke Harry, and had him hide in the bathroom. Harry didn't ask any questions even as Wick pulled his guns out, even as the hilt of a knife caught his green eyes as John shifted in his jacket. But before he went, he made sure to arrange the pillows to look conspicuously like a child, the black sweater they bought the day before, shoved under the covers and quickly arranged to imitate his nest like hair.

 

Smart boy. They'd see how well it deceived their new friends, if it did so at all. The shifting sounds of the young boy stopped as he settled in the bathroom and once John shifted into the shadows, all that was left to do was wait.

 

He heard them before he saw them. A low thunk, conspicuous to the point that made Wick wonder. Was it on purpose, to distract him? To make him underestimate them?

 

Then came a whisper, something that sounded oddly like 'Aloha', and then the door swung open. He couldn't see them, but they still cast faint shadows, the places where they should have been looked a bit hazy, as if Wick had set fire to the place and the heat was refracting the light.

 

Even if it wasn't for that he would notice them, they were incredibly noisy to his ears that were used to keeping a lookout for assassins that made no sound. Creaking sounds as if they were clutching wood, the sound of footsteps only barely muffled by falling on plush carpet, breaths accompanied by a whistling sound as if one of them was recovering from a cold, and an almost overwhelming swish of fabric.

 

Obvious was the word Winston had used. It was apt.

 

John waited. He could take them out easily enough right then but he wanted to see just what he was up against. 'Sometimes when I want things to happen, they do,' Harry had said. What did these two want to happen then?

 

"Kingsley," came a rough voice, "Check the bedroom. Run diagnostics, I want to know everything that happened in this place in the last two days."

 

"I'll have to drop the disillusionment charms." Came the answer, the voice almost quiet, but laden with authority. Probably a cop of some kind.

 

"I'll cover you." The other said, and the 'charms' as the other called them dropped. Wick got a good look at the two, the way they moved, the way they held their 'weapons', the odd gnarled sticks.

 

One was a soldier, the other a cop. And both wouldn't be able to do much to him, Wick knew. The soldier knew brute strength, the cop was the good cop type and would hesitate, try to incapacitate him rather than go for the kill.

 

Neither would present much of a challenge.

 

Kingsley moved to the bedroom, and the second he was out of earshot the soldier turned to where Wick stood in the shadows. One eye was a bright electric blue, unnaturally so, but the eye itself looked to be organic, not a glass or plastic thing like John had seen before. If it wasn't for the way it whizzed about John would have thought it was his real eye, that the man simply had some heterochromia. And then there was the way it suddenly stopped moving to focus on him.

 

No, Wick understood well enough that this was some kind of Magic too. They man was carefully scrutinising him and when he opened his mouth to speak, John moved.

 

A red light flew out from the stick but it was far too slow. Wick dodged it and his hand flew out as the man tried to compensate for it, jabbing quickly at the man's throat so he could make no more sound to alarm his companion, before tweaking the right pressure points to render him unconscious. Another time, and John would have killed him but he needed information on Harry's magic and besides, he didn't want Harry to see him kill, not just yet. It was inevitable, but Wick would rather delay it as far as he could.

 

A quick check under the man's eyelids told him that the magical eye had stopped moving, and _this,_ more than anything else, told him that it was safe to let the man stay knocked out like that while he dealt with the other.

 

The other one was even easier to deal with. His back was turned to John, and he had no magic eye to warn him. A blow to his head, and he was down for the count.

 

As far as fights went, it was disappointing.

 

Then again, a retired man like Wick shouldn't have been thinking of fights at all.

 

He tied the two up, taking their sticks from them, wands he realised. Their pockets were emptied, their voluminous dresses carefully checked for any and everything they might have.

 

There were many strange things they carried. A bag that looked like any other coin purse but when Wick put his fingers in it to see what it carried, his entire arm slipped in. He emptied it out to find gold, silver and bronze coins, a Malay newspaper, a map of places in London that Wick had passed before but never seen, and lastly a lighter.

 

It threw him off. Lighters were useful of course, but they were such a mundane thing. He didn't think that a person who could turn invisible would have difficulty starting a bit of a flame. It was suspicious.

 

John flicked it open and instead of a little flame, a red light emerged. It looked like a laser pointer and he saw that it was aimed straight at the bathroom where Harry was hiding.

 

"You alright there, kid?" He asked, and Harry emerged from the bathroom. His eyes were wide, trained on the two tied up figures behind Wick but John himself was looking at the light from the lighter. The light that landed firmly on the left side of Harry's chest, exactly where his heart would be. He flicked the lighter close and then opened it again. The light emerged to land right there once again. John moved about the room, flicking it open and close but the target of the light remained Harry's heart.

 

Harry's attention had waned. While Wick tested out the lighter he went over the pile of things that John had scavenged from their visitors.

 

"Wicked!" He whispered, looking at the Malaysian newspaper with unabashed delight and John was confused. As far John knew, newspapers weren't quite what young boys thought 'wicked'.

 

"You know Malay?" John asked and the boy looked at him confused.

 

"No, why?"

 

"That paper, it's in Malay." John knew many languages, Russian, Italian, Japanese, Cantonese, Spanish etc, all the languages of the High Table. Malay was not one of them. John knew enough to recognise it though.

 

"It's in English," Harry said, confused, and opened the newspaper up, "And look, the photos, they're moving."

 

It still looked like Malay to John, and he leaned in closer to see what it was that Harry was seeing. In doing so his sleeve brushed against Harry's shoulder and the newspaper rippled, suddenly turning to English.

 

'The Daily Prophet' it read, with moving photos of people dressed like the strange magicians Wick had just incapacitated.

 

It seemed that Magic was stranger than Wick expected.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Sorry for the late update, I had exams and assignments and more. Thank you for all the comments/kudos/subscriptions, your feedback is appreciated.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **So, I finally got around to watching John Wick 2 and this fic is definitely not canon compliant. My headcanon for the story is basically everything related to New York and the Tarasovs, including the beginning of the second movie with Abram. As far as the fic goes, the car is too damaged for repair, Wick's last true connecting thread to Helen and his happy life in NY is lost so he goes off to live in Surrey and then the fic happens.**
> 
>  
> 
> **That said I am _loving_ the world-building they did in Wick 2 and the High Table and markers and all that will very probably make an appearance but the, but Santino himself and consequently the plot of Wick 2 won't be included. This will be the last sort of transition chapter, the Wizarding world interludes with Dumbledore freaking out will still be there but for the most part it's going to be set in the Wick universe**
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

 

Getting to New York is easy. John doesn't even need to spend any Coin to get it done. Harry's passport is forged easily enough, paid for in cash. Britain is one of those odd places in the world where the world Wick is a part of, doesn't really exist. No High Table interfering, no Markers, nothing. Crime still exists, of course, but as if in a vacuum, not connected to the bigger world.

 

There are many other such places in the world and so John doesn't think much about it. He figures it's because these places don't play by true rules, only chaos. It is why the Italians have three seats on the Table after all, because they had a system before the High Table existed, a system that formed the basis of their world.

 

Harry doesn't sleep the entire flight, too busy looking outside the airplane windows, excited. It doesn't show as much as it might in another child though, he sits with his arms and feet tucked in, barely moves, doesn't put his hands and face up against the glass like the girl three rows away is doing. John figures it is the Dursleys' doing, but he can't be sure.

 

John pulls up the feed on the screen in front of Harry, the one that shows the plane as a little figure, like a monopoly token on a board.

 

"What was your first flight like?" Harry asks out of the blue, his eyes trained on the screen now.

 

John doesn't startle at the question, but it is a damn near thing. He hasn't thought of firsts in a long time now.

 

"Not as calm and nice." Harry finally looks away from the screen with a questioning look. "It was back when I was in the Marines."

 

"Like the army?" Harry asks, too young to know that saying such a thing might get him punched another time. So Wick explains.

 

* * *

 

The walk into Continental is accompanied by dropped jaws and stares. Despite the life he leads, or perhaps because of it, John isn't used to people staring at him. He's walked into the Continental with blood dripping off him and broken bones, and not an eye turned, now when he walks in with Harry, even the cool and calm Ares, probably waiting for Santino, all but gapes.

 

(It's little more than a widening of her eyes and the slightest gap appearing where her mouth is usually shut tight in a smirk but from her that's practically pointing with a hand clapped over her mouth in shock)

 

Actual whispers start up and Harry presses ever so slightly closer to John as they walk up to the reception.

 

Charon is unphased. That was to say, he didn't say anything, but even Wick's deficient empathy detected more than a bit of curiosity in his eyes. But he smiled pleasantly and said, "Welcome to the Continental, Mr Wick. Are you here on business, or pleasure?"

 

"Personal business for now. May I have a word with the management?"

 

Charon's eyebrows rose high. Wick had never been quite as blatant in requesting a meeting with Winston. It was usually just a matter of heading to the basement after all.

 

But he was unwilling to leave Harry alone, and just as unwilling to take him to the basement where alcohol flowed and sex was all around. And Winston was the closest he was to any information on Harry's world (and it  _was_ a world, one with rules and regulations the way Wick's world did) and they  _needed_  to know more about it.

 

Besides, if Winston and Harry got along well enough, perhaps the man would be willing to watch him for a while. John Wick needed to have a bit of a  _chat_ with Abram Tarasov.

 

"He is currently on the roof with a bit of free time, will Mr Potter be joining you for brunch?"

 

Harry gasped next to him and moved his frame behind Wick. John put a hand on his head and felt his trembles subside, but was wondering the same thing Harry was.

 

"Is he that famous then?" Wick said mildly knowing that Charon would hear the hint of bloodlust behind it.

 

Charon smiled pleasantly, "Baba Yaga, the boogeyman, and the saviour of the Light, the Boy-Who-Lived." The pleasant smile turned amused, "You young men have no idea what lies ahead of you."

 

* * *

 

Harry follows Mr Wick, all but hiding behind him. He is not afraid, not exactly, he's seen the state Mr Wick had left their stalkers in. But...the man at the reception had known who he was. Harry knew that for some strange reason the strangely dressed folk knew him but this was another country. That this man in a suit should know him, scared him more than any of those odd ones coming up to him and shaking his hand without asking for permission, ever had.

 

So, he hides but is not afraid. Mr Wick can protect him. Even odder than that, he  _wants_  to protect Harry.

 

There is an old man on the roof who smiles warmly at the sight of Mr Wick, getting up and walking up to them in welcome. "Jonathan," He says and sounds so much like the people in the world Harry left behind that the fear almost comes back. It feels too much like 'home' to be of comfort to him. "I didn't expect to see you so soon, and you bring a member of my family with you." He says with a glance at Harry who presses closer to Mr Wick at that.

 

Family means  _nothing_ to Harry.

 

(In an office in Scotland, the crumpled blackened piece of silver that was once tied to blood wards falls apart completely, leaving nothing but bits of scrap)

 

"You know who he is." Mr Wick says and his large hand finds its way onto Harry's head again, the warmth of human touch calming Harry.

 

"Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter nee Evans, grandson of Charlus and Dorea Potter and Harold and Rose Evans, godson to Sirius Black, my first cousin once, and my own first cousin once removed, of course."

 

Harry staggers under the weight of information he has been given. He has never known his grandparents' names. He has never known he had a godfather. And now a first cousin once removed stands in front of him.

 

How?

 

"Of course, considering my father was cast out of the family while the world was told he was dead, I don't suppose I can put much claim to such a title. Squibs and their children have little power over young wizard's fates, no matter that they are family." His cousin says, and Harry jolts again.

 

"Is that what I am? A wizard?" Harry asks, and his cousin is the one to be surprised for once. But for all that Harry _knows_  that strange things happen around him, he cannot bring himself to say the word he is thinking of. The 'M' word, when brought up in the Dursleys house meant pain, and Harry may be away from them but he has not forgotten.

 

"You don't know?" He asks, but Harry is too overwhelmed and cannot answer beyond tugging at Mr Wick's coat and he answers for him.

 

"He said that he can make things happen sometimes, when he wants them badly enough." Mr Wick says. He does not tell the man about the two men following them, about the newspaper, about the odd lighter they found on them. "Is that what you're talking about?"

 

The man sighs, a heavy sound and sits down at the table, gesturing them to take a seat as well. He shakes his head. Once they are all seated, he speaks again.

 

"Magic is real." Harry barely contains a flinch at hearing the word spoken out loud. "Those who can wield it are called Wizards and Witches. Those who are born to magical families but cannot wield it are called squibs, such as myself. You, Mr Potter, are a wizard. A rather famous one at that." 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have an awesome excuse for the late (9 months, holy shit) update! I lost my account details, all of them, legit did not remember my email id until a week ago. And my exams are restarting in a while sooo...
> 
> Yeah, I am a horrible excuse of a human being.
> 
> Also, some background information, Pottermore may say Fleamont and Euphemia are James' parents but in my story it's Dorea and Charlus, Dorea's older brother is Marius Black (Winston's father) who was cast out for being a squib, Marius is also Walburga's uncle and thus everybody's inbred af and related. If I have gotten the cousin stuff wrong, please tell me, I did wikipedia it but I cannot be certain.
> 
> Also, a massive THANK YOU for still reading this story, despite it being so long since an update. When I first started it I had no idea it would get any readers at all, I thought it was too niche a crossover but somehow it actually has readers and that's pretty amazing and hard to believe.


	6. Chapter 6

 

No one looking at Winston would be able to tell that he was in a  bit of a panic. It didn’t show on his face, in his body language, anything at all.The world he lived in, he didn’t have the luxury of emotional expression, especially as the manager of the Continental. A level of detachment was necessary to be the manager of a Neutral space in their world. He could not rage the way John could, could not be annoyed the way Santino did, couldn’t be smug the way Viggo would have been. Only cold amusement and warm nostalgia were available to him.

 

And they were certainly not what he felt then.

 

John had left to settle business with the Tarasovs, still annoyed at being followed to England. There would be no Tarasov syndicate by the time he returned, Winston knew. And in the meantime he was left to babysit his young cousin.

 

The boy was unlike any other he had met. It wasn’t just the magic, of course, it was more than that. The boy had lived through harsh conditions to be sure, there had to be a reason for Wick to have rescued him so, but despite that he was rather...innocent.

 

Innocence was not something they had in their world.

 

It wasn’t because he was young either, many enforcers started young, and there were the heirs to the many syndicates as well. But innocence was not something either of those could claim. They had been born to a life of violence and death, after all.

 

Then again, he thought, young Harry Potter had been born to an era of war as well. Had his first kill at an age far earlier than even the most brutal of the heirs could claim. Innocent did not mean harmless.

 

What would the ears of their world make of this young innocent boy with his early kill, Winston wondered. Would he become legend like Wick had? Transcend humanity to become a monster like Baba Jaga?

 

Still, the boy was capable of miracles, that much was obvious. Winston hadn’t seen Jonathan being quite as peace with himself before. He had been unfeeling and blank when he had first become part of their world. It was what made him so good at his job, there were no orders that made him balk, no arbitrary morals to stop him. The stories they told about him talked about how he was a man of focus, pure will and commitment, they failed to mention that for a long time there had been little more than that.

 

Helen had changed that, made him human. She had changed that again by dying, making him a monster anew. Winston had felt an overwhelming pity for John when they’d last met. Chasing revenge as Baba Jaga for a slight he had faced as John Wick. The monster and man warring with one another inside, trying to figure out which he was.

 

The person he was now, was more than John had ever been. Complex in a way Winston had never seen him be before. There was no purity of emotion there, not _just_ grief, not _just_ anger. An amalgam of feeling that Jonathan probably hadn’t known himself capable of.

 

Miracles. Another one of Harry Potter’s making.

 

Winston hummed absently as he watched the boy. His little cousin was withdrawn and quiet, looking at the door every other second in an obvious hope that John would walk in. And that was odd in itself.

 

After all, Winston had talked of magic. Of a power that Harry hadn’t had the word for. Surely, he should have been curious? Should have asked after the family that Winston had mentioned? He was more fascinated by the inlaid tile than interested in talking about magic though, and that had Winston wondering.

 

Winston had never been jealous of those who could work magic the way his father had. He had seen how bitter Marius Black became when the mention of that world was made. Winston had only ever seen it as a skill, one he didn’t have, nothing more, nothing less. He couldn’t do magic perhaps, but neither could he bake, nor could he play the cello. He made sure to learn what he could of it because it was a threat. Charon had been hired not only for his efficiency and acumen, but also because he knew of many magicks and how to reverse them. Couldn’t have the manager of the Continental obliviated, after all.

 

Not that their world collided much. Magic wasn’t practiced in America the way it was in Britain. The users lived their own life, far away from the rest, their life closer to that of the Amish than anything else.

 

And even when they ventured out, they did not interfere. The Rules were understood.

 

“May I ask how you came across Jonathan?” Winston couldn’t help but ask, curious. In this world where he was as close to all-knowing as a person could be, curiosity was quite a thing to experience.

 

“He saved me.” The boy said, no hesitation, no doubt. And Winston, who had wondered why the Boy-Who-Lived knew nothing of magic, felt a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. He shouldn’t have expected better from that world but he supposed he still had. Expectations and the defiance of the same, quite an oddity for him. “When will he be back?” His cousin asked, jolting him out of his thoughts.

 

“Once he has burned his enemies to the ground.” Winston said, and watched for Harry’s reaction.

 

How the boy took this piece of information was everything. Whether he liked it or not, whether he knew it or not, he was  apart of _their_ world now, no longer belonging to the wizards. All that was left to see was whether he had the gumption he needed to survive in it.

 

“So, he’ll be back soon.” Harry Potter concluded and went back to counting tiles.

 

And Winston smiled. Yes, his young cousin would do just fine.

 


End file.
